David Gates - Jernigan

“See, originally the henhouse was over there,” I said, pointing. “Cost him an arm and a leg to have ’em move it and lay that foundation for it. Now the doorway into the kitchen, see, was right there. He’d go down to the kitchen in the morning, get his coffee and go straight in to work. So of course when the studio caught fire, the whole place went up. Hey, only connect, right?”

“I guess so,” Danny said. Doing his best to fake it. As old Dad was doing his best to shut him out by talking over his head. Christ.

“Well, don’t worry, champ,” I said. “Your dad’s not going to get into a big thing here. Let’s see if we can’t sneak up on one of those trees, okay? I think this is the time of day they come out to graze on the side hill.” Not much of a joke, but at least it didn’t demand any fucking erudition.

We crashed through some brush and brambles behind the house, stepped over the little brook that had been the boundary between backyard and apple orchard, sank into mud for a few steps and then found ourselves on solid ground again. Bloated yellow apples lay rotting into the dead grass. We kept the apple trees on our right and eventually struck a path I remembered, leading behind the orchard and up the hill.

“Sure as shootin’,” I said, and pointed at the steep side hill with its outcroppings of ledge and patches of juniper. “Christmas trees galore.” Here and there stood a man-high pine tree, or whatever they were. “Let’s double back and get our weapons, amigo.”

“You’re sure it’s okay to do this?” he said.

“If they take us,” I said, “we’ll go together.”

Back at the car, I got out the ax, scythe blade and snath. “I’ll let you be the grim reaper once I get this thing back together,” I said, feeling around in my jacket pockets for the damn adjustable wrench. “You ever use one of these?”

“I’ve seen guys using ’em,” he said. He must have meant on television.

“Hell is the wrench?” I said. “Christ, I know I brought it.”

Danny patted his own pockets helpfully, though he surely knew there was no chance he had it.

“Scheiss,” I said. “For want of a wrench the scythe was lost, for want of a scythe — here, would you check in the dash?”

He opened the passenger door and sat down heavily on the seat, as I kept thrusting my hands in and out of my pockets like some baggypants comedian. “How about these?” he said, holding up a pair of pliers.

“Saved the day,” I said. “Cannot believe I left the wrench behind. What would Freud say about this? Ist das nicht ein wrenchenslip? Ja, das ist ein wrenchenslip.” He watched me put the scythe back together, probably wondering what the fuck I was babbling about now. It was impossible that he could love me. Although he certainly had no one else left to hang on to. His only other living relative was his Uncle Rick, who’d broken up with his friend Rich shortly after Judith died, and had moved to Eureka, California. I toyed with the idea of asking Danny point-blank did he love me, but why ruin a nice day. If that’s what we were having.

“Okay, bud,” I said, handing him the scythe and picking up the ax. “Over the top.”

The path behind the orchard led into what was left of an old two-rut track that went around the base of the hill, cut through the woods and ended up in what used to be some dairy farmer’s haylot. Shoulder-high brush had now taken over the track, and we kept having to detour around patches of brier.

“Mess,” I said. “Let’s try a little ways up the hill. Looks like better going.”

We climbed up out of the brush into the dry grass of the hillside. “Hey Dad?” Danny called. I turned around. He was pointing to a pine tree just above us. “What about that one?”

“Possibility,” I said. “I don’t know, though. See? The top is kind of forked there. I don’t know what you’d do about that.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” he said.

“Bottom of it’s nice and full,” I said.

“Forget it,” he said.

“It’s a candidate if we don’t run across something better,” I said. It was a lousy tree. Though lousy, I reminded myself, only from our narrow perspective: you couldn’t be too careful what you thought. We trudged diagonally uphill, always making our detours around the junipers on the high side.

“That one?” I said.

Danny looked. “Isn’t that one kind of weird at the top too?” he said. “There’s all that space there where there’s not any branches.”

“So you cut all that top stuff off,” I said. “Cut the top, like a foot of it, right off. And stick your star on there.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Doesn’t pull your trigger, huh?”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

“Hey,” I said. “Let’s find one we can really throw our support behind.” No answer. The political metaphor made me think of a joke. “Presidential timber,” I said. But it might have been too obscure.

We climbed on. Chilly as it was, I was starting to sweat. I could feel my heart going, and I had to make a conscious effort to breathe slowly and through my nose so Danny wouldn’t hear his old man panting. He was just striding along on those long, lean, sixteen-year-old legs.

“Want to take a breather?” I said.

“We’re almost to the top , Dad.” Said with maybe just the edge of an edge. Or was he simply offering me encouragement? I looked back. From up here you could see the ruined foundation clearly, and you could tell that the lawn had been a lawn. Ruins that made sense only from above, like Erich von Däniken’s landing strips for spacemen.

I sat down. “Tell you what,” I said. “Since the old man’s out of shape anyhow, let me have one of those things.”

“Have what?” he said.

“Cigarette,” I said. “Bertie Wooster calls them gaspers. Isn’t that a great expression, gaspers?”

“Dad,” he said. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Shows how much you know,” I said. I was surprised that it came out sounding so brutal. I’d been aiming for witty.

“How long have you been off them this time?”

“Too God damn long,” I said, standing up and holding out my hand.

“Dad, I really don’t think you should,” he said. “You’re going to be real sorry if you get hooked on them again.”

“That’s my lookout,” I said.

“They’re my cigarettes,” he said.

I stared at him. A good-looking boy, holding a scythe awkwardly over his shoulder, blade pointing back at his calf. A little taller than me. Gnawing on his lower lip.

“Oh hell,” I said, and sat down again, using the ax as an old man would use a cane. My ass on the cold earth. Danny didn’t move. I looked down again on the place where my father had died.

“Sorry, amigo,” I said, after a while. “I said I wasn’t going to make a scene, and here I am making a scene.”

“I guess it must be weird for you to be here,” he said.

“I hadn’t thought so,” I said. “I guess I shouldn’t underestimate my capacity for having a normal reaction, right? At any rate, thanks for the tough love. You bastard.” I’d meant that to be jocular too. Everything was going off-key. “Ho, brother,” I said.

“Think we should get going?” said Danny.

I looked up at him. “I don’t even know why we’re doing this,” I said. “The whole thing is fucked, right? I mean, are we really going to go through a whole Christmas thing with them, knowing?”

“Dad, how come you’re asking me?” he said.

“I’m thinking out loud, for Christ’s sake,” I said. “I’m not asking you.” If I didn’t know what to do, at least I could be pissy. “You done any Christmas shopping yet?” I said, staring back down at the cellar hole.